O, though no gift, no “prevalence of prayer,”Nor lovers' paleness deep as violet,Nor husband, smit with a Pierian fair,Move you, have pity yet!O harder e'en than toughest heart of oak,Deafer than uncharm'd snake to suppliant moans!This side, I warn you, will not always brookRain-water and cold stones.

Come, Mercury, by whose minstrel spellAmphion raised the Theban stones,Come, with thy seven sweet strings, my shell,Thy “diverse tones,”Nor vocal once nor pleasant, nowTo rich man's board and temple dear:Put forth thy power, till Lyde bowHer stubborn ear.